A collection of memories

Pop's funeral was yesterday. This is what I said:

I remember Mum telling me "you're just like your grandfather!" I have inherited his "I'd better save this because I never know when I'll need it again" gene. My bedroom is testament to this fact. Some call it hoarding, Pop would have called it foresight: a lasting legacy of his scout days, of always being prepared, perhaps.

I remember that he was strongly of the opinion that "if something could be fixed, then why waste money on replacing it?" At last count, there were five radio/cassette players in various states of functionality in Pop's house. For him, each one was salvageable.

I remember that he was always fixing something. I'm sure he had difficulty relaxing when he knew there was work to be done. One day when I was alone with him I made an off-hand comment to him about the front door sticking a little when I tried to close it from the outside. I set off to the supermarket and returned an hour later to find him standing on the front veranda, WD40 in one hand and a rag in the other, oiling the hinges and the lock, opening and closing the door, and saying "hmmm" as he tried to figure out where the problem was. He found it eventually and the door was sticky no more.

As he got older, he got very frustrated at being unable to fix things himself. I remember attaching a catch to the garage door for him. He stood behind me, offering advice and checking I was doing it correctly. He asked what size screwdriver was required, did I need a Philips or flat-head, offering to fetch another screwdriver if I thought that would be more appropriate? He always told me that you must use the correct tool for the job. He certainly didn't carry the "that'll do" gene: if you didn't have the correct tool you should wait until you had it; if it wasn't done right you should wait until you had the time or means to do it correctly. Otherwise, you may as well not bother.


I remember his brilliant mind. As a boy I thought there must be few things that he did not know about. As I grew I realised that it was more a case of there being few things that he lacked the capacity to understand. He loved to explain things. He spoke with such precise language that it was easy for me to understand what he was talking about: he explained to me how cameras work and about the developing process. He loved to know how things worked. I think he needed to know how they worked to fully appreciate them. He was always curious about the new gadgets I had with me when I visited. It was tricky to explain what an mp3 player was but I think he got it. After quite a bit of discussion he even understood the mechanics of email and text messaging.

I was lucky enough to have been able to spend so much time with him this last year. I stayed with him once a week, the day before or after uni, and spent a week with him in July when my aunt and uncle went away. I enjoyed just sitting with him and chatting. Even when we weren't talking it was nice to just sit-him with his talking books on so loud even I could hear it and me with my laptop.

I remember that he had a story for every occasion: about his time in New Guinea, the family growing up, his time at technical college or working for JB Wallis. He remembered every car he'd ever driven and often told me all about them. He would ask me about my travels and say something like "my cousin and his wife lived up that way" or "I went on a holiday there when I was a boy". I always learnt something new when I spoke with him.

I remember us playing with my new train set on his front veranda on Christmas day.

I remember the old garage and matchbox cars that we would play with when I was a kid.

I remember the way he said "go on!" when I said something amazing and "hooray" instead of "hoo-roo" when I left after staying with him. I remember how he used to say "hello boy!" when I phoned him.

I remember him getting annoyed with me in July for breaking up a block of chocolate without asking first.

I remember the way he used to split his tissues in half while his nose ran, so he would save tissues.

I remember trying to explain ebay to him. That was a stressful day for us both.

I remember how he loved the Enya song, Marble Halls. He said it gave him shivers the same way that the screeching sound of a steam train braking did.

I remember making him hot chocolate every night before bed. At about 9:30 he would ask me the time, and then say "about time for supper, I think." I would make the hot chocolate and test it for him, so he didn't burn himself, even though I hated the taste.

I remember how he loved ginger.

I remember him laughing at a lame joke Dad made about his slippers last week in hospital.

I remember the way he spoke about Grandma and the family.

I remember his sense of humour.

I remember his smile-that wry crooked grin that curved up to the left-that he wore all the time. That is what I will always remember.

Goodbye Poppa. I miss you already.

I love you.